


The Life and Death of Hector Rivera

by BernRul



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Gen, Pre-Canon, Somewhat tragic, because it's Hector
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-02-15 19:49:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13038180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BernRul/pseuds/BernRul
Summary: Hector always knew that he would become a musician. He just didn't know what it would cost him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I just saw Coco last week and instantly fell in love with Hector's character. This was meant to be a one shot based on Hector's life (and after life) before he meets Miguel, but it went longer than I planned. The first chapter is Hector's life in Santa Cecilia. Warnings for language and character death later, though that should be obvious with the title.

“Hector, mijo, pay attention!” was the constant refrain of his childhood. By seven, he’d lost count of how many times his abuelita, exasperated, let those words slip from her lips. For a time when he was six or so, he’d become half convinced that that was his full name and that everyone just called him Hector for short.

It wasn’t his fault. He tried to focus on his chores (boring as they were) or his lessons (mostly to avoid Senorita Garcia’s lethally sharp ruler) or mass (though, really, what was the point of paying attention when the priest spoke in Latin?) but his mind kept wandering away from him. He would find himself humming a tune or tapping his fingers against his calves in the perfect beat. He’d think, this could be a song, and then he was gone, creating the story in his mind, stringing the words and sounds together. 

He couldn’t help it. It was just the way he was.

 

He grew up poor, but then, everyone was poor in Santa Cecilia. He didn’t have much family to speak of. He entered the world at a tumultuous time, and each year more and more men in his family disappeared to the revolution, or else the many diseases that ran rampant, snatching children from their families like a monster come to life. That was the fate of his cousins, his siblings, but strangely, it spared him. He’d had his mama once, but he couldn’t remember her. She died in childbirth, not with him, but a stillborn hermanito. This left Hector in the care of his aging, arthritic abuelita, who was forever lamenting Hector’s foolishness but still loved him fiercely, in her way.

Hector was drawn to the Mariachi Plaza. The music pulled him in, the timber of their voices, the sounds of the various instruments working together to create something magical. Was no one else hearing this? Yes, they enjoyed the music—he could see it in the way the townspeople danced, how they sang along—but it didn’t seem to move them like it did him.

It was no wonder, then, that he and Ernesto became friends. Ernesto understood. He was two years Hector’s senior, and came from a loving, doting family that was whole unlike Hector’s tattered one, yet he was the only other person in Santa Cecilia who loved music like Hector. 

While the other boys were out in the streets playing football and tag (and Hector still joined them, some of the time, because he was still a boy, after all) he and Ernesto would often head to Mariachi Plaza to hear the music. 

“Hey, Ernesto,” Hector said one summer day, as the two of them found shelter from the sun in the shade behind the fish vendor’s cart. “If I tell you something, do you swear you won’t tell anyone?”

“Of course, amigo,” Ernesto replied as he swatted at a particularly pesky gnat.

“I’m going to be a musician when I grow up.”

To his credit, Ernesto didn’t laugh. But he wasn’t enthusiastic either. 

“Don’t you need to play an instrument to be a musician?”

“I’ll get an instrument. A guitar.” And already he could see it in his mind: the perfect guitar, bedazzled with diamonds in intricate designs, strapped across his chest. 

This time Ernesto did laugh. “Where are you going to get the dinero?” 

Both boys were currently wearing threadbare, patched up pants and shoes with worn down soles.

“I’ll find away,” Hector vowed. “Believe me, amigo, I’ll become a musician if it kills me.”

Ernesto pondered it. His voice broke into a smile. “Perhaps we could both be musicians,” he said, “and travel the world.”

“Si, we could go to Guadalajara—”

“And Cuidad de Mexico—”

“And California—”

“And Cuba—”

“And Paris.”

They were both grinning ear to ear.

 

Hector found his chance when he was nine-years-old. 

It was the Day of the Dead. After the visit to the cemetery (always Hector’s least favorite part. His abuelita became so emotional, but Hector couldn’t share her connection to relatives he had never known in life), he’d gone to listening to the performers in the plaza. 

“Come on, mijo!” his abuelita called, “it’s been a long day, you need your rest.”

He’d gone to follow, reluctantly, when he crossed paths with a disgruntled singer, who nearly ran into Hector as he made his way to the dumpster. 

“Bah! This piece of shit! What good is it?”

He heard the sound of something heavy crashing down. Hector waited until the man had gone, then dashed over towards the dumpster. There, amongst the garbage pile, was a guitar. It was the most beautiful thing Hector had ever seen. Sure, it was covered in trash, and the guitar itself wasn’t in the best condition with its peeling white paint and splintering handle, but it was workable. Fixable, for sure.

He used some tap to fix up the handle. It wasn’t perfect, but it wouldn’t break anytime soon. With a little shoe polish, he was able to cover over the peeling paint and various dirt stains, turning it into black and white designs, including a skull that he was rather proud of.

They didn’t have a teacher. No books to guide them. Hector and Ernesto essentially taught themselves to play through mimicking the sounds they heard, passing the guitar back and forth. It was slow at first. Hector’s fingers calloused and bled, and he messed up the notes more often than not, but he pressed on. He found time to sneak away for practice each day, sometimes with Ernesto and sometimes without. By the time he was twelve, he finally felt semi confident in his abilities. 

 

He left school that year. The family needed him to work to help them get by. He didn’t mind. He could read and write, which was enough for him to put his lyrics to paper. His true education came from the plaza.

He worked a series of odd jobs, never quite sticking to one. His favorite, though, were the occasions that he and Ernesto were able to play at the plaza or the local tavern, and collected a coin or two as tip. Typically, Hector played the guitar and Ernesto sang lead, with Hector occasionally providing back up. Puberty had been kind to Ernesto: he was tall and broad while Hector was a perpetual string bean, with a chiseled, handsome face and dark, soulful eyes. Girls flocked to hear them play, swooning over the dashing, charming Ernesto de la Cruz. Hector wasn’t too hard on the eyes himself; he had his share of admirers, even if Ernesto had twice as many. Not that he cared. The music was what mattered.

In those early years, they stuck to playing old favorites. Folk songs, traditional, humorous little ditties that always got a laugh. Hector became well known for his rendition of “Juanita,” though he only ever played that for the men at the tavern, when he was sure that his abuelita wasn’t around. 

He tried his hand at writing his own songs. Those first attempts would embarrass him, slightly, in the years to come. He drew inspiration from the things around him—one particularly memorable sunrise that filled his bedroom in an orange glow, the people that he encountered in Santa Cecilia. This got him in trouble from time to time. On one notable instance when he was fourteen he tried between gasped breaths to explain to Mariana Lopez’s ham-fisted older brothers that “Donkey-Faced Mariana” was about some other girl, one they’d never met before and so definitely couldn’t be related to them. 

 

He was returning home from playing in the plaza, in the autumn of his fourteenth year, when he heard the most beautiful sound. A girl was singing somewhere just ahead of him. He recognized it as “La Llorona.” Each note captured the sheer tragedy and longing of the song, as if the girl had lived a thousand lifetimes, each with a fresh share of sorrows. He needed to find the owner of that voice.

After dashing ahead and turning a corner, he found her, the loveliest girl he’d ever seen. She was tall and slender, with a round, flawless face and black hair tied up in an elegant bun. She carried a basket of laundry in her arms and continued to sing, unaware of her new audience. Hector grinned. Carefully, he slid the guitar into his arms and began to play along.

“La LLorona, la Lloron—argh!” she jumped at the sight of him, dropping the laundry on the dirt road.

“I’m so sorry! Let me help you!” he said, scurrying to collect her now dirty clothes. He felt himself blush, and ducked his face down to hide it. 

“What’s the matter with you?” the girl demanded. She was about his age, and clearly not someone to be messed with. “Who do you think you are, sneaking up on people like that?”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, “I heard you singing and I had to follow. Senorita, you have the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard.”

She scowled, but it didn’t hide the pinkish tinge that appeared on her cheeks. Hector took that as a good sign. “I know you. You’re that boy that plays in the plaza.”

“Hector,” he said, with a theatrical, and he hoped, charming bow. 

She was not amused. “Imelda.”

“You should join me in the plaza, Imelda,” he said eagerly. “A voice like yours needs to be heard.”

“I don’t have time for that nonsense,” Imelda scoffed. “Not when there’s work that needs to be done.”

She sounded harsh, but Hector caught the look that flickered across her eyes. It was wistful, perhaps longing. Hector was half convinced that he already loved the girl.

“If you say so,” he said. “Here, let me carry that for you. It’s the least I can do after scaring you.”

“I wasn’t scared,” she said, but she didn’t protest when he reached for the basket, and let him walk her all the way back to her casa. 

 

He saw Imelda a couple of times a week. They talked about nothing in particular, and after a while, sang together. She had older brothers like poor Marianna Lopez, unlike the hermonos Lopez, Felipe and Oscar were not very intimidating. It balanced out, for Imelda was intimidating enough for her entire family, and could ensure that his intentions were honorable. Not that Hector intended anything less! Ernesto could chase after their female fans all he wanted, but Hector’s heart belonged solely to Imelda. 

 

His abuelita died when he was fifteen. Pneumonia, he thought it was. He buried her with all of the rites of the Roman Catholic Church and made a point of placing her photograph on the ofrenda. Although he ached for her (he even missed her nagging) it caused only minimal change to his life. He was a man now, or close enough. He still worked whatever jobs he could, still played with Ernesto, still courted Imelda. It was a simple life, but he enjoyed every minute of it.

 

His songwriting improved, too.

“Hector, mi amigo,” Ernesto aid one night, clasping him on the back. “Where do you get your inspiration? ‘Un Poco Loco’ is genius!”

Hector grinned. ‘Un Poco Loco’ had been a smashing success at the tavern that night. In fact, at that very moment, he could hear two drunks stumbling around the street, belting out their own version of the song, which missed half of the words but still got the gist right. 

“Ay, Ernesto, I can’t tell you. I don’t want to get in trouble.”

“Come on, you know I wouldn’t—” realization dawned on his friend’s face. “It’s about Imelda, isn’t it?”

Hector tried to keep a straight face, but failed miserably. They broke up into a fit of laughter. 

“I don’t understand how you two stay together the way you fight,” Ernesto said. “Mark my words, you won’t last another year!”

“We’ll see.”

 

It took nearly two years before Hector could finally persuade Imelda to join them on the plaza. 

She was uncharacteristically quiet as they walked to the plaza, her skin as white as a ghost.

“It’s normal to have stage fright,” he said. “My first time in front of an audience, I almost threw up on my zapatos.”

“I do not have stage fright,” she said automatically.

“Oh, si, si, of course you don’t,” Hector said. “But what helped my stage fright was loosening up like this.” 

He wiggled his arms, shoulders, then neck, exaggerating every moment. “See, querida?”

She laughed. “Hector, you look foolish.”

“Si, mi amor, but I feel wonderful.”

She rolled those gorgeous brown eyes, but she went along with it. Not quite with Hector’s enthusiasm, but she did it all the same. 

“Feels better, no?” he smirked, elbowing her in the ribs (lightly, of course). She pushed his hand away, but she was smiling, too. 

They never had to worry about stage fright again.

 

He loved Imelda with his heart and soul, but there was a reason why she inspired ‘Un Poco Loco.’ Their bickering was legendary. Their relationship seemed to swing between periods of blissful happiness and tumultuous fighting. None of their friends could understand it, but Hector knew that’s just how they were.

One such incident occurred when he was sixteen. He found Imelda in the garden behind the house she shared with her older brothers. 

“Ay, mi amor! As beautiful as ever—”

He had only a split second to dodge the shoe she aimed his way. 

“You idiot!” she cried.

“What was that for?” he asked, more baffled than anything else. Usually the reason behind her anger was clearer.

“Oh, what was that for, he asks,” Imelda said, throwing her hands in the air. “I’m pregnant, estupido.”

Hector’s heart skipped a beat. He must have misheard. There’s no way she could have said what he thought she said. Then came the panic. This can’t be happening, he thought. We’re too young, we’re not ready. How can I support a child? He peered into Imelda’s eyes and saw his own doubt and fears reflected back to him. He wanted to comfort her. Would it really be so bad? They could make it work. And he’d have a proper family—he and Imelda and the child they had made, all together. 

“That’s wonderful, mi amor,” he said, and by the time he said it, he was half convinced that he actually meant it.

 

The night before his impromptu wedding (Imelda was starting to show, but they could still hide it with the right dresses), Hector sat at the tavern, surround by friends and well-wishers.

Ernesto led the toast. “To Hector!” he raised his glass. “It's this crazy bastard’s last night of freedom!”

“To Hector!” the others echoed, clanking their glasses and laughing. Hector felt pleasantly warm, and couldn’t keep the smile from his face.

“Congratulations, Hector, she’s a real beauty,” Diego said.

“Ay, but that temper,” Antonio said, elbowing him in the side. “You can keep her, amigo.”

“Having a wife and family changes everything,” said Elian, the only married man of their group.

“It won’t for me,” Hector said, “I’ll still be out here every night, playing ‘Juanita’ for you bastards.”

As the others laughed, Hector noticed, briefly, the look that came over Ernesto’s face. He couldn’t place it, not exactly, but it was serious, almost grave. Before Hector could dwell on it, the topic changed, and the party switched back to the same boisterous mood as before.

 

Imelda went into labor two weeks after Hector’s seventeenth birthday. He was banished from the casa by a stern-faced midwife, though that didn’t stop him from making seven attempts to sneak back in. He couldn’t stand to see his wife in such pain, especially when he was powerless to do anything about it. Apparently, she couldn’t stand to see him when in such pain, either, because the last time he tried, she looked him square in his eyes, her face layered with sweat, her black hair askew, and said, “You did this to me, you bastard!” It did not strike Hector as an appropriate time to point out that that technically they did this to her.

So he sat outside of the window (hearing every moan and cry of pain) and strummed his guitar. He played a medley of songs, some traditional and some his own invention, all gentle and soothing. He hoped she’d hear it and know that he was thinking of her.

His daughter was born just before sunset. She was perfect: looked just like her mama with big, soulful eyes and a tuft of black hair. He couldn’t quite believe it. Him, a father. He was the father of a beautiful, healthy, perfect baby girl. They named her Socorro, but everyone called her Coco for short.

 

If marriage was an adjustment, it was nothing compared with adding a baby to the mix. For the first month and a half, no one slept.

Hector loved his daughter dearly, but he also missed his sleep.

It was particularly bad one night when Coco was about a month old. He and Imelda sat up in their tiny bedroom, red eyed and so exhausted that they could barely think. Nothing could soothe the screaming baby, not rocking her, not changing her, not feeding her.

“Ay Dios mio,” Imelda groaned. “Go to sleep, mija, por favor.”

Hector, who had been rocking the wailing child in his arms, met Imelda’s eyes. 

“Hey, Imelda,” he said, then motioned with his arms as if to mimic throwing the baby out of the window. 

Imelda looked a second away from scolding him, but then her face crumpled into laughter. Hector joined in. Laughter felt so good to his weary body. 

“Let me try something,” he said. He began to sing, “Oh mija please go to sleep/so mama and papa can sleep/because if you don’t go to sleep/ than mama will claw out papa’s eyes.”

Imelda snorted. 

It didn’t work instantly, but after a few more minutes of adding nonsense versus, Coco’s eyelids grew heavy, and after nestling against Hector’s chest, she finally succumbed to sleep.

Hector never felt so proud in his life. 

“The lyrics were terrible,” Imelda commented, “but the melody was sweet.”

She was right. He had something there, if he could just fix the words.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hector and Ernesto set out to share their music with the world. It's more complicated than Hector thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for some language and brief references to sexual situations (though nothing explicit). Also, major character death, but that shouldn't be surprising if you've seen the movie. Please let me know what you think!

Hector watched Coco grow. Coco began to crawl around on the floor, and Hector would pretend to chase her, as Coco’s delighted giggles echoed around him. She clutched tightly at his fingers as she took her first uncertain steps. He beamed with pride when she said her first word, “Papa,” and couldn’t resist teasing Imelda. She bounced up and down,, clapping her hands (her version of dancing) whenever Imelda sang or he played the guitar. 

They were still poor. Life was hard. But Hector couldn’t find it in himself to complain, not when he came home every night to Imelda and Coco, when he could hold both tightly to his chest know that, finally, he had a family.

 

Imelda met him outside as he came home from work on his eighteenth birthday.

“What is it?” Hector asked, after twirling Coco around. Imelda was acting odd, like she was hiding something.

“A surprise,” she said vaguely. “You’ll love it—well, I hope you will. You need this. You’re old one is practically falling apart.”

“What is it?” he repeated, assuming she meant a new pair of shoes or jacket. 

“Come and see."

There, perched against the stove, was a brand new guitar. This one was all white, but decorated much like his old one, with the same skull design at the handle. It even had a gold tooth to match his own (he had not been quick enough ducking out of the way of the Lopez brothers’ fists). 

“Imelda,” he breathed out in awe, “it’s wonderful.” He turned to her. “How did you afford this?”

“I saved up,” she said. “Don’t worry about it. After all, I can’t have my husband going around the plaza looking like a bum. 

“Thank you,” he said, embracing her, Coco caught in the middle of them. This was the best gift he’d ever been given. He knew that he would cherish it for the rest of his life.

 

As Coco grew, so did Ernesto and Hector’s reputation. They began accepting paid gigs at weddings and quinceañeras, not just within Santa Cecilia but in neighboring towns as well. The winning combo of Ernesto’s charismatic showmanship and Hector’s songwriting turned them into local celebrities. For the first time in their lives, they were earning decent money from their music. As a result, he didn’t need to work as many hours, allowing him to focus more of his time on writing music. He’d taken to writing everything down in a small, leather-bound journal. As his twentieth birthday approached, he’d already written dozens of songs for them to perform. 

They performed all but one.

 

Nights in bed were the ideal time for Hector and Imelda to talk. Their daily lives were so busy between work, music, and a growing child, that it was difficult to find time during the day for a real heart to heart. Especially when so many of their daytime conversations involved bickering or playing music for Coco (Hector’s favorite way to relax after a day of work). After dark, while Coco was fast asleep in her room, the husband and wife could finally talk together as they lie in bed, just the two of them, unencumbered by the rest of the world. And although he would never say this out loud (he wasn’t suicidal), Hector valued those rare occasions that Imelda let her hair down, both literally and metaphorically, allowing her seldom seen gentler, softer side to shine through.

“I was thinking,” Imelda said, nuzzled against his chest, “that we might be able to start our own business.”

“Oh?” Hector asked in a teasing tone. “And what would we sell, querida? I don’t think there’s much demand in Santa Cecilia for guitar makers or singing instructors.”

“I know that,” she answered, a little brusquer, though it quickly vanished. “I was thinking something like…shoes.”

“Shoes?” Hector laughed, surprised.

“They’re practical,” she said, “everyone needs shoes, even scruffy musicians like you.”

“Fair enough, but there’s still one little problem: we don’t know how to make shoes.”

“We can learn,” she said. Hector squeezed her closer against his chest. “Senor Castillo hasn’t done much with work in his shop since his wife died, and his daughters have all moved away with their husbands. I might be able to persuade him to teach me.”

Hector knew firsthand how effective Imelda’s powers of persuasion could be.

“Perhaps, querida, but I have my music to think of. We’re starting to make some real money from it. Enough to provide us with a good life.”

“For now,” she said, “but we won’t be young forever. We need something dependable, to put down roots that we can pass down to Coco. She’s young now, but she’s growing fast.”

There was truth to this, he supposed, but for the life of him he couldn’t see himself as a shoemaker. He almost wanted to laugh at the very idea. Besides, no matter what she said, he knew his music career was booming. He couldn’t throw that away now.

“I’ll consider it,” he said.

 

“Hector, I’ve been thinking,” Ernesto said one evening, as they made their way home from a wedding in a nearby village. Hector was in good spirits, despite the cramps in his fingers and the weariness that nagged at his body. He was beat. He wanted nothing more to crawl into bed and cuddle up against his wife. Yet their performance had been a smashing success, which was really all that mattered. “Remember when we were boys and you told me that you wanted to be a musician?”

“How could I forget?” Hector said with a wistful smile. “And I’d say it came true, seeing where we are.”

To his surprise, Ernesto did not share his smile. His friend wore a serious expression, which was such a rarity for him that it forced Hector to pay attention.

“I wonder…are we really? Oh, sure, we perform for crowds, you write songs. We certainly are musicians of a sort. It’s just…Hector, I think we’ve hit a wall.”

“I don’t understand.”

“We’ve reached as far as we can go in Santa Cecilia. Playing for fiestas, never going farther than a day’s journey. I can’t help but feel that we’re squandering our potential.”

“What are you suggesting?” Hector asked. His heart hammered in his chest. Part of him wanted to challenge Ernesto, to tell him that things were just fine, that he had never felt more complete in his life. But another part of him felt the truth in his friend’s words. In some ways, Hector was still the foolish little dreamer with his head in the clouds, the boy his abuelita always scolded. He knew there was more to be had.

“We have a gift. You have a gift, amigo. I could only dream of being as good a songwriter as you! We make an incredible duo. If we take a chance, if we seize our moment, we could become the most famous musicians in Mexico. Maybe even the world.”

“Oh, come now,” Hector laughed, “I won’t pretend that I’ve never dreamed about it, but the world? I think you’re getting carried away, Ernesto.”

“I’m telling you, you have a gift. And it’s being wasted while we’re stuck here.”

Hector ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, Ernesto. I have a family to consider.”

“Ay, you do. Think of how much you’ll provide for them if we become famous. Imelda will never have to work again. Coco can go to the best schools and have the best clothing. Her future will be secure.”

It was tempting. Hector pictured himself playing for a packed auditorium, travelling the world with Imelda and Coco at his side. He saw a version of his daughter who would not have to leave school like he did, not have to work like a dog just to get by. He saw Coco happy and educated and secure. 

“Think about it,” Ernesto said, throwing his arm around Hector’s shoulders, jostling the guitar strapped to his back. “An announcer bellows before a spellbound crowd, ‘Presenting—de la Cruz y Rivera!’”

Hector shook his head. “You mean Rivera y de la Cruz.”

“No, no, it’s in alphabetical order, you see.”

They laughed, eyes dancing with the possibilities. 

 

Imelda, as even a child like Coco could have predicted, did not take it well.

“Let me get this straight,” she said. She wasn’t yelling—yet—but her body shook with barely suppressed anger, like a hurricane battering against a flood wall, moments before breaking through. “You’re telling me that you want to abandon your wife and child to becoming a travelling musician, and I’m supposed to, what, give you my blessing.”

“I’m not abandoning you,” Hector said, wounded. “And—keep your voice down,” he hissed, risking her wrath even further, but Coco was playing in the front yard, still within potential hearing distance. “This is only temporary, mi amor. A few months at the most. I could make enough money to keep us comfortable and happy forever. Don’t you want that for Coco?”

She was not swayed. “Of course, that’s why I suggested opening a business. To put down roots. Not for you to chase down your own glory and adventure with bigheaded Ernesto and then use your daughter as a convenient excuse. What happens if it doesn’t work out, eh, Hector? Where will we be then?”

“I have to try, Imelda,” he pleaded. “You don’t understand—”

“Oh, I understand!” she said, her lips twisted into a disgusted grimace. “I know what musicos are like; out all night, chasing girls—”

“Ay, querida, I can see it now: the girls won’t be able to resist this hombre muy guapo,” he teased, raising his eyebrows.

His joke didn’t land well, not that he really expected it to.

“Oh, yes,” she snarled, “you can make your stupid jokes, but I know what’s going to happen those long nights that you’re away.”

“Imelda,” he said softly, “you know that I’m not like that. You’re the only woman for me.”

“That changes nothing,” she said, as firmly as before, but he thought he saw her shoulders relax a little. “You’re still abandoning us.”

“Never,” Hector vowed. “You and Coco are my world. It’s just…I have to try, Imelda. Maybe I’ll fail miserably, but I won’t be able to live with myself if I’m always wondering ‘what if.’ At least this way I can say I tried.”

Her stern exterior started to slip.

“And,” he added, “if it doesn’t work out we’ll open your shoe store.”

“Senor Castillo seems agreeable,” Imelda said, “I think he’ll give me lessons. And you will write to us at least twice a week and telephone once a month.”

“We don’t have a telephone,” Hector said.

“The Guzmans do. We’ll arrange a time and day once a month. They owe me a favor.”

“Deal,” Hector said, feeling like a weight had been lifted.

“I still don’t like this,” Imelda said.

“I know, mi amor,” he said, taking her into his arms. “That’s why I’m eternally grateful to have the best wife in the world.”

 

If telling Imelda was difficult, than telling Coco was heartbreaking.

“But why?” the four-year-old asked turning her huge, luminous eyes on him. She was Imelda in miniature, but with a rounder face, and a few hints of Hector sprinkled in.

“Papa needs to travel to play his music,” Hector said, trying to explain it as best as he could. “Papa’s an okay musician, right?”

“The best,” Coco nodded fervently. Hector scooped her up into a tight hug, spinning her. She laughed directly into his ear. He wished he could hold this moment forever, the sheer joy of having a four-year-old daughter. He felt confident in his decision before; now, faced with the reality of leaving Coco, a part of him wanted to tell Ernesto that he changed his mind. 

“I’ll write you letters every day,” Hector promised. “Mama can read them to you.”

“I’ll miss you,” she said against his chest.

“I know, mija, I’ll miss you too,” he said. He was suddenly struck by an idea. “Remember our song?”

“Remember me,” she answered.

“That’s right,” he said, dropping her down, lightly, onto the bed. “We’ll sing it every night at the same time, right before bed, no matter where we are. Got that, mija? Then we’ll still be connected, no matter how far apart me are.”

“I understand, Papa,” she said.

“Good.” He unclipped his guitar case. Coco beamed; she loved listening to him play. “We’ll sing it together tonight, but after that, you’ll remember to sing it on your own, right?”

She nodded solemnly. Coco was funny like that—in many ways such a bright and playful child, but she also had a mysterious air to her, like an old soul trapped in a child’s body. 

“That’s my girl,” Hector said, and he began to strum the opening notes. As he leaned in closer to her, she placed her chubby little hands on his face. They were warm and welcoming, and he wanted this moment to last forever, the two of them together, connected by music. 

 

He left the next morning, just after sunrise. 

“Remember the song, Coco,” he whispered in her ear. She nodded against his chest.

“Goodbye, Papa,” she said. 

Hector lifted the girl high in the air and gave her one last twirl, savoring her delighted laughter. Then he turned towards her mother.

“It won’t be long,” Hector said, pulling Imelda into a tight hug. “And who knows, you might like it better without me to pester and annoy you all the time. Enjoy the peace and quiet, eh?”

Imelda fought to keep her face stern and failed miserably. 

“Don’t be stupid,” she told him, “that’s not an attractive look on you.”

“Ah, so you do find me attractive,” he smirked.

“You’re impossible,” Imelda shook her head. “Just remember to write.”

“I will.”

“And phone the Guzmans the days that I wrote down.”

“I will.”

“And don’t so much as look at another woman.”

“I won’t.”

“And Hector,” she said with a smile so sorrowful it could have broken his heart, “good luck.”

He met Ernesto on the road.

“Hector,” he boomed, giving his friend a slap on the back, “I almost thought you’d chicken out.”

“And deprive you of my wonderful company?” Hector said. “Not to mention my incredible talents.”

Ernesto grunted a laugh. His friend was the picture of boisterous energy, radiating excitement and confidence. 

“You’re not nervous at all?” Hector asked as they walked. The train station was a town over, about an hour or two on foot. Perhaps if they made enough money Hector could purchase an automobile. He’d seen them before, though never driven one. He was itching to test it out for himself. He imagined sitting in the front seat with Coco on his lap, letting her steer.

“I told you, amigo, I have that much confidence in us,” Ernesto said. “We have the talent, the dashing good looks. All we need is to seize the right moment.”

“And you’re sure this is it?”

“Of course,” he replied. “This is the moment we’ve talked about since we were boys. We’re finally getting to share our music with the world outside of Santa Cecilia.”

Hector had never been on a train before. Ernesto had, once, to visit some far-flung cousins, but as Hector’s family was either dead or in Santa Cecilia, he’d never had the opportunity. He was embarrassed to admit it, but he acted more like a boy of ten than a grown man of twenty-one. He didn’t think he closed his mouth until at least fifteen minutes after the train started.

The seats were comfortable, facing back so that he could see the sights as they rushed by. On the journey they shared drinks, told stories punctuated by laughter, and Ernesto spent a good ten minutes trying to flirt with the waitress, but Hector’s favorite part was the view. He was mesmerized by the hills and pastures, towns and villages, that sped by. For the first time in his life, he truly appreciated that there was a wide world out there, so much larger and grander than he was. Men occasionally left Santa Cecilia, either to go off to war or travel for work, to Cuidad de Mexico or another city, some even venturing as far north as Estados Unidos. Otherwise, the village you were born in was more often than not the village you died in. A part of Hector was content with that life, content to play his music for locals and embrace the role of husband and father. But another part of him yearned for something more. 

Ernesto had said that they would share their music with the world. It was a wonderful thought. 

 

Wherever Hector and Ernesto went, success followed. They always drew a crowd, and after one appearance, word of mouth would bring in even more people, all curious about the two young, handsome musicos.

“You were right, amigo,” Hector shouted to Ernesto at the end of a performance, needing to raise his voice to be heard over the crowd, “we really are popular.”

“I told you! But do you ever listen to your friend?” Ernesto laughed. “We just need to see this through, Hector, it’s only going to get better from here.”

They fell into a comfortable routine. They spent about a week or two in one town, depending on its size, living in inns and making sure to perform almost every night. Ernesto lived for it; he seemed to feed off of the energy of the crowd, the bigger and louder the better. Hector, too, was enthralled by their new lifestyle, though from time to time he found himself nostalgic for the quieter moments when he was with his familia. He made a point singing “Remember Me,” under his breath every night before going to sleep, even those nights when he was out playing late or not quite sober.

 

He made sure to call the Guzmans once a month at the appointed time. First he talked to Imelda, who told him any little detail that struck her fancy (“Senor Castillo is going blind in his right eye, so you can imagine how long it takes for him to find the right materials”) or grilled him about his habits (“That’s what you consider an acceptable dinner? Ay Dios mio.”). Afterwards, she’d put Coco on. Hector tried to tell the little girl as many exciting things as possible, but mostly he just listened to the seemingly unimportant stories that meant the world to a four-year-old.

“I lost a tooth, Papa! I really did! Carlos Jimenez pushed me and it fell out!” 

“I’m sorry you were hurt, mija, but it’s exciting all the same.”

“If my tooth doesn’t grow back can I get a gold one like you?”

“It’ll grow back, Coco,” he laughed.

Or:

“I found a cat in the alleyway, Papa, he’s been following me everywhere. I named him Rojo because his fur’s reddish. Mama won’t let me keep him, she says Pepita will fight with him and that he has diseases. Can we get a kitten, Papa?”

Or:

“I can braid my hair all by myself now! Well, kinda. They usually fall out when I start playing.”

Inevitably, the conversation would be cut off much sooner than he would have liked, by an impatient Guzman or Imelda wanting to remind him of something. Hector marveled at how much Coco was growing. Soon she would be ready for school, and not too long after that, her first communion. Hector wondered if he’d be able to teach her to play the guitar; perhaps in a year or two.

 

Two months away from Santa Cecilia, Ernesto got the bright idea to hire a photographer.

“If we get our photos taken, he can get more exposure,” he reasoned to a doubtful Hector. “We can print them in the newspaper to help get the word out.”

“I don’t know,” Hector said, “they always take so long setting up and by the time they’re ready I always scratch or blink and ruin it.”

He thought about the last photograph he posed for, one that he’d arranged as a present for Imelda. He probably fidgeted more than Coco, only two at the time, but the results were magnificent. 

“Quit being such a baby,” Ernesto said. “It will take five minutes.”

It took fifteen, but who was counting? They took pictures of the two of them together, posing with their guitars, and a few individual photos, which the photographer dubbed “headshots.” Hector had to admit that they weren’t bad; he was especially fond of his headshot, since he’d never seen a picture of himself that really captured his personality before. 

Ernesto was right, once again: the photos brought them even more attention, which led to more paid appearances. Hector kept his own headshot in his pocket, wanting to show it off to Imelda the next time he went home.

 

There were girls, of course. Girls were drawn to them like flies to honey, and Ernesto hadn’t changed his womanizing ways. Some nights he didn’t return to their room at all, and Hector would find him the next morning having breakfast at the inn, acting even more cheerful than usual.

A side effect of this was that Ernesto often tried to rope Hector along. One night, after yet another successful performance, Ernesto pulled him over to a side table, where they entertained the lovely Lupe and Renata.

“You were so good,” Renata (or so he thought) gushed with a hand placed lightly on his forearm. 

“Where did you learn your songs?” asked Lupe (probably). “I’ve never heard them before.”

“Ah, well, that’s because I wrote them.”

“Ay, Dios mio, you wrote them?!” Renata exclaimed. 

“You’re so talented” Lupe said. “And handsome.”

Ernesto gave him a knowing smirk. Hector felt honor bound to set the record straight, especially since Ernesto had most likely mislead these poor woman.

“Mucho gracias, you’re too kind,” he said. “but being a musico has its drawbacks. Being on the road makes me miss home, especially my wife and daughter.”

“Aw, you have a daughter? How old?”

“Four.”

“What’s her name?”

“Socorro.”

“This is so sweet!”

To Hector’s surprise, this only seemed to make them more interested in him, as if being a family man only added to his attractiveness.

“Pardon me, senoritas,” he said, standing, “I, uh, need to use the restroom.”

Ernesto frowned after him, but didn’t say anything.

Ernesto returned to their room just before midnight. Hector was still awake, lying in bed and writing in his leather-bound journal. Ernesto scowled at his friend.

“What were you doing back there? After you left, we were uneven. Lupe was feeling left out, so they both went off somewhere else.”

“Sorry for that,” Hector said, “I didn’t want to hurt their feelings. It’s just, you know, married,” he tapped the ring on his left hand for emphasis. 

“Plenty of men are married but don’t act like they’re allergic to girls,” Ernesto grumbled.

Hector thought back to Imelda’s words: “I know what musicos are like.” He knew that a lot of men would not have a second thought about going to bed with Lupe or Renata, married or not. He knew that if Ernesto had a sweetheart or wife back home, he’d probably still chase girls at night. But Hector couldn’t be like that. He knew that Imelda’s anger towards “musicos” was a front to hide her pain and fear. But she didn’t need to be worried in that regard; he’d meant it, wholeheartedly, when he said he only had eyes for her.

“Well, I’m not like those men,” Hector said.

Ernesto shook his head. “What happened to you, mi amigo? You’ve changed in the last few years.”

Hector wanted to retort that he’d always been this way—he’d started his odd courtship with Imelda when they were fourteen, for God’s sake—and that it was kind of, sort of, shitty for Ernesto to put him in situations like that, knowing how Hector felt. But he didn’t say any of that; he valued their peaceful relationship too much to be petty. So he went back to his writing, allowing Ernesto to sulk in silence, letting him get it out of his system.

 

Before he knew it, they’d been away from home for five months. Hector was only a few weeks away from his twenty-second birthday, and two weeks after that, it would be Coco’s fifth. 

Hector was almost scared of how popular they were becoming in such a short period of time. A small part of him had always expected to fail, despite Ernesto’s unwavering optimism. It had been Hector’s dream since he was a niño to share his music with the world, but he couldn’t shake the fear that he’d ruin it somehow, that he really was the daydreaming screw-up that everyone always called him. 

However, success did not equal freedom. It seemed that the more popular they became, the more Ernesto insisted that they needed to do. They needed more performances, to travel even farther, to prolong their return home to the ever vague “just a few more weeks.” And while it was wonderful sharing his music, expanding his abilities, five months was an awfully long time to be away from a wife and growing child. While Ernesto basked in the glory, Hector found his thoughts turning more and more towards his family in Santa Cecilia. 

It was a letter that sent him over the edge. Such a simple thing, really. Hector had been true to his word, sometimes sending letters twice a week, always making sure to keep Imelda updated on his travel plans. Letters still got lost, inevitably. They moved around so much that sometimes they were already gone by the time a letter arrived, but still, Hector got most of them (or some of them, he actually wasn’t entirely sure how many had been lost). 

For the most part, the letter wasn’t remarkable. It contained Imelda’s usual updates on the goings on of Santa Cecilia, her progress with Senor Castillo, and Coco’s growth. There was one tiny difference: at the bottom of the letter, written in large, uncertain letters, was “CoCO”

She wrote her name. His baby could write her own name now. He brushed his fingers over the letters, noting how she capitalized every letter except, for some unknown reason, the first “o.” He imagined Imelda guiding Coco’s unsteady hand, forming each letter slowly. He pictured Coco’s excitement at getting to sign her name for her papa. 

Where had all the time gone? How did he now have a child with missing teeth who could braid her own hair and write her own name? What else would he miss, if he stayed away any longer? 

Enough was enough. He needed to see his family now. Then, perhaps, after spending time with his family, he could decide how to proceed, but for now, he couldn’t stand another day apart. Ernesto would be angry at first, but he’d understand. Hector began to pack, imagining the surprised looks on Imelda’s and Coco’s faces when he showed up at their casa the next morning, how he’d pick up Coco and spin her around…

“What are you doing, Hector? We’re not leaving for another two days,” came his friend’s voice. The grin slid off Ernesto’s face. “Hector? What’s going on?”

So he told him, and as predicted, Ernesto did not react well. Hector had prepared himself for anger, but he had no idea how to handle the pure devastation that came over his friend, like he’d been deflated. Ernesto pleaded with him even admitting how lost he’d be without Hector’s songs, how he couldn’t go on without his amigo at his side. 

Hector felt the barest twinge of guilt to see his childhood friend so distressed, but it was not enough to sway him. Right now, Imelda and Coco were all that mattered.

“Hate me if you want,” he said firmly, “but my mind is made up.”

He turned to the door when Ernesto’s voice called him back.

“Oh, I could never hate you. If you must go then I’m sending you off with a toast.”

There was the Ernesto he knew, bouncing back already. He figured that he owed his friend that much, so paused to share a drink.

“I would move heaven and earth for you, mi amigo. Salut!” The glasses clinked together. 

Hector downed his drink without a thought.

“Thank you, Ernesto,” he said, “but I need to catch the train.”

“Let me walk you,” Ernesto sprang to the door. “It’s the least I could do. Besides, I’m not going to be able to sleep any time soon.”

The cool night air hit Hector as soon as he stepped out of the door. He took a deep breath, savoring the knowledge that this was his last night away from home. From tomorrow on, he’d spend his evenings breathing in the smell of Imelda’s cooking, avoiding stepping on Coco’s dolls as he walked around the house, and playing music for his smallest audience yet. 

As they walked, Ernesto filled the silence. 

“Perhaps this is for the best. Seeing your family will do you good, and who knows, maybe it’ll inspire you to write more. But even if you don’t come back, Hector, I want you to know that it’s been a privilege playing with you. You’ve helped me more than you know…”

Hector barely heard a word. The more he walked, the more he noticed the pain in his stomach. It was gradual at first, barely distinguishable from the minor aches and pains that accompanied daily life, but with each footstep it grew worse. Hector tried to ignore it, but it became so intense that he couldn’t concentrate on anything else. 

What the…? he thought. Did I eat something that had gone bad?

It was like he was being stabbed from the inside out. He hunched over, clutching his stomach, gritting out an anguished cry. He felt Ernesto’s arms around him, heard him say something about a chorizo, but he couldn’t focus on that. All he registered was the pain, and his desperate wish that it would end, for the love of God, please. 

His legs were too weak to hold his weight. They buckled underneath him. He just needed to rest. Yes. He wouldn’t feel so weak if he could just rest for a bit, just until the pain went away. He closed his eyes, and felt everything else slip away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to make this fit with what we know from the movie, and keep the technology based on the late 1910s/early 1920s. Sorry if I got any details wrong. Next chapter focuses on Hector's time in the Land of the Dead before the events of the movie.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hector begins to adjust to the Land of the Dead. The subject matter in this chapter is fairly dark, espeically dealing with the realities of child mortality in the past, but I've tried to add some lighter moments to balance it out. Let me know what you think!

Hector woke up confused. 

“Mm, Ernesto, what’s going on? Where are we?”

Ernesto didn’t respond. Hector rubbed his hand against his forehead. It felt strange, but he was too disoriented to figure out how. At least the pain was gone…

It came back to him then: he’d been walking to the train station when he’d collapsed on the street.

He opened his eyes. He was still lying on a road, yes, but this one was clearly different. It was surrounded by houses that were illuminated by a rainbow of vibrant lights, unlike anything he’s seen before. He took a moment to let it soak in.

“Ernesto?” he asked, looking around. “Ernesto! Where are you, amigo?”

But it wasn’t Ernesto who answered.

“Señor, please come with me.” A man was striding towards him, wearing the blue uniform of an official of some kind, likely a police officer. Hector scrambled to his feet—he hadn’t done anything wrong, but in his experience being told “come with me” by a cop was never a good thing.

“Por favor, wait—”

It was at that point that Hector caught a glimpse of the official’s face. Or rather, his lack of face, because what stared back at him was a pure white skull, complete with intricate green and yellow designs and blinking brown eyes. 

Hector shrieked. He wished he was more dignified, but he couldn’t help it; there was a skeleton talking to him, madre de Dios. He was lucky he didn’t faint. 

“St—stay back!” he gasped.

The uniformed skeleton sighed. It actually sighed, of all things.

“Look at your hands,” it said in a dull, almost resigned tone.

“My—my hands?”

Hector’s instincts told him to run away, but he was so confused and curious that he couldn’t help but glance down.

His hands were nothing but bones. He flexed his fingers and found that they could move, though they felt lighter. He patted his chest, neck, and face. He felt ribs, sternum, bony neck, and a skull.  
He was a skeleton. Which meant that he was…

“Come with me, señor,” said the officer gently, “I can explain everything.”

 

He was taken to the Department of Family Reunions, because apparently even in the Land of the Dead, bureaucracy reigned supreme. 

He was in the Land of the Dead. He still wasn’t used to that. His brain seemed to be working slowly, numbly (his metaphorical brain, that is, since he didn’t have a real one anymore) and couldn’t process it all. He was dead. He wondered if he’d ever get used to that. He died at twenty-one, which meant that he would always be twenty-one. He and Imelda had sometimes joked around about when they were old and gray(“will you still love me, mi amor, when my hair falls out and my back stoops over? Will I still be your hombre muy guapo then?”) but Hector would never be old and gray, while Imelda—  
Madre de Dios. Imelda. Coco. What was going to happen to them? Did they already know? Where they arranging his funeral at this very moment? Surely they knew; Ernesto would have told them. They must be devastated, Coco especially, now that her papa wouldn’t be there to see her fifth birthday.

Hector’s body wobbled, like he might collapse again.

“Whoa, señor, careful,” said the official, pulling Hector up by the arm. His arm popped out of his socket, which wasn’t even the weirdest event of the day. “Sorry, it happens sometimes. You’ll get used to it,” he added as he popped it back in. “Why don’t you have a seat. Your family has been notified, they should be arriving shortly."

He heard them before he saw them. 

“Ay, pobrecito!” came the cry, followed by his abuela, looking exactly the same as the last time he’d seen her, except, of course, for being a skeleton. She pulled him into a tight, bony embrace. “What are you doing here, mijo? It’s way too soon for you to be here! How did it happen?” She looked around wildly, from the official to Hector, searching for answers.

“I think it was…food poisoning?” Hector said.

“Food poisoning! I always told you, didn’t I, that you needed to take better care of yourself! You never paid attention to these things. What were you eating?”

“Abuelita…” he started, wanting to tell her that it wasn’t like he ate something obviously spoiled. He was struck by how familiar his grandmother was, how it felt as if no time had past since they last saw each other. He hadn’t realized how much he had yearned for her until they were reunited. 

“Never mind, you poor boy,” she cooed, “you’re with your family now, we’ll make it all better.”

It was only after she stepped aside that he noticed the family that accompanied her. There was a tall woman with a shy smile, around thirty, holding a baby in one arm (it was so disconcerting, to see a baby skeleton), with two children, a boy and a girl, clinging to her skirts. 

“Mama?” he asked, barely above a whisper. He had been around Coco’s age when she died, leaving his memories of her sporadic at best: a smiling face leaning over him, placing a cool cloth on his fevered brow; swinging him gently and singing lullabies in his ear; a warm embrace after he’d skinned his knee. Now he stared at the beautiful young woman before him, looking more like his sister than mother, staring at him with such tender eyes, and it felt so right. 

“Oh, Hector, mijo,” she said as she wrapped her arms around him. “I’m so happy to see you, though I wish it wasn’t so soon.”

 

They brought him back to their house, which sat stacked atop six others and could only be reached through cable car. For the first time since he’d died (which had been less than a day by that point, but still) he’d experienced a moment of pure, untainted wonder. The Land of the Dead was breathtakingly (heh) beautiful. 

The house was small, especially with two children and a baby, but it felt homey instead of cramped. It was painted a deep sunset yellow with lights strung up along the rooftop and doorway. Hector was excited at first, thinking they were electric, until he remembered that the Land of the Dead most likely ran on magic, not electricity.

He was back with his family again, but aside from Abuelita, they were virtual strangers. Especially his siblings. Fernando was a perpetual seven-year-old, while Carla was six. Hector only had scattered memories of them—running around in the alley behind their casa, kicking each other for blankets, and a voice telling him, “vamonos, hermanito!” They died when he was three, when a spring sickness past through Santa Cecilia, preying on the elderly and children in particular. Hector had recovered from his illness, but his brother and sister had not been so lucky. Abuelita told him that he’d spent the following summer staring out of the window, asking when they would come back to play. And Hector couldn’t even remember the baby, who was apparently named Angel, a popular name in the Land of the Dead for infants who died before a name could be given.

“Though I had already planned on naming him Angel,” Mama informed him. “I’d had it picked out since I found out I was pregnant.”

“Of course you did,” Abuelita said, with an eye roll aimed at Hector. 

Hector was disappointed to learn that he couldn’t watch over Imelda and Coco like an angel in the clouds, but had to wait one day a year to see them.

“Don’t worry, mijo,” Mama said, bouncing little Angel on her knee. He seemed like a happy little fellow, prone to giggles. “Dia de Muertos is only a few months away. You’ll get to visit them in no time.”

Hector still felt that he was being ripped off—only seeing his precious daughter one day a year meant that he’d miss all of the milestones of her life—but since he couldn’t change it, he decided to do what he could to make those first months go by as pleasantly as possible. He spent much of his days becoming reacquainted with his siblings. Ernesto and Imelda both had living siblings, and he always found himself a little jealous. Now he could finally have that sibling experience—even if they were children under ten and he was technically a grown man.

“Hey, muchachos, check this out,” he said one afternoon. Carla looked at him expectantly, but Fernando seemed almost offended.

“Who are you calling muchacho?” Nando scowled. “I’m older than you.”

“Ah, but Nando, it appears that you are seven and I am twenty-one. That’s three times older, if my math is right.”

“That doesn’t matter, hermanito. I’m still the oldest. I was born first. If I had lived I’d be,” Nando scrunched up his face in concentration. It was a somewhat amusing look on a skull. “Twenty-six.”

He peered at his brother and sister triumphantly. 

“Hey, that means I’d be twenty-five,” said Carla brightly, as if the thought had never occurred to her.

“Whatever you say, chico.”

Nando was a second away from exploding.

“You wanted to show us something, Hector?” Carla asked pointedly. Hector smiled in gratitude. 

“You’ve all heard of football before, si?”

“Duh,” Nando said as Carla nodded.

“But, have you ever heard of…headball?”he wiggled his eyebrows up and down.

“Que—” Nando started, flatly, but before he could finish the question, Hector demonstrated by removing his head with a loud pop and bouncing it up and down against his knee. 

“If you kick my cabeza between the trashcans you score a goal!” he said from his position on the ground. It was disorienting at first, but he got used to it quickly, and the children took to it right away, chasing after his head and laughing. 

Hector found that he quite liked being a big brother—though truthfully Nando was right, they were his older siblings except for Angel or whatever his name would have been (he shared his abuelita’s opinion in that regard). It helped take his mind off of things, and he was good at it, perhaps because he was a father…but, no, he didn’t want to think about that now.

“You know, you chicos are lucky in a way,” Hector said as they made their way back to the sunset house. “Being an adult isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Working, being responsible for a family, getting funny looks whenever you try to play tag in the plaza—ugh, no gracias.” 

“Oh, please,” Nando said. “Just because you were bad at it—”

“You think you’d do better, chamaco?” Hector challenged.

“I know I would,” Nando said, eyes aglow. “I’d be a soldier and actually do something important.”

Hector made a huffing noise.

“I wouldn’t mind having a little girl like you did,” Carla said. “I could braid her hair and sew her the prettiest dresses."

“That part is nice,” Hector said, “but what about when they cry all night or you have to change caca diapers?”

“Ew!” both children squealed, making Hector laugh.

 

Being dead came with its own adjustments. The dead ate for enjoyment, but there was no need for food. He once went weeks without food (as a kind of experiment) and it didn’t bother him whatsoever, didn’t even cause the faintest of hunger pangs. Likewise, he didn’t need to sleep every night but just take naps every now and then to feel refreshed. He didn’t need to use the bathroom, either, which was weird but not unwelcome. Pain didn’t exist, nor did sexual desires (probably for the best, come to think of it, since skeletons wouldn’t be able to find a release for that even if they wanted to), but he still had memories of those sensations, and could recall them vividly if he wanted to. 

 

Hector fought a sense of nervous excitement in the days leading up to Dia de Muertos. He knew he was being ridiculous; the prospect of seeing Imelda and Coco again filled him with joy. But, still, it was his first Dia de Muertos on the other side, and he wasn’t sure what to expect.

“It will be fine, mijo,” Abuelita assured him. “It’s your family. It will seem strange at first, especially when they can’t see you, but you’ll get used to it in time. I love Coco just as much as any grandchild or great-grandchild, even though I've only ever seen her on Dia de Muertos.” 

He knew that she was right, but he still couldn’t shake away his nerves. He made sure his tie was tightened and his hat sat straight on his head; he knew that Imelda wouldn’t be able to see him, but he could still almost heard her voice in his head, saying, “Oh, you haven’t seen us for nearly a year and you come back dressed as a bum?” 

He smiled at the thought. Hector followed his family’s lead as they made their way to the Cempazuchil Bridge. The line stretched out as people waited for permission to cross over the Land of the Living. 

“Is it always this long?” Hector grumbled.

“Patient, mijo,” Mama said. “Our turn will come soon enough.”

And of course, she was right. His family stood before the official, a kindly middle aged woman, who skimmed her bony finger through a book that must have weighed twice as much as his daughter. 

“Let’s see, Fernando Rivera, you’re on your great-aunt’s ofrenda, go right ahead. Same for Carla Rivera, Veronica Rivera, and…?” The woman looked expectantly at Mama. 

“Angel Rivera,” his mother supplied, the look in her eyes almost challenging the other woman. From what Hector could tell, the only exceptions to the “no photo on the ofrenda = no crossing” rule were stillborn or miscarried babies. They were allowed to cross, but only if accompanied by their mother, and only if said mother had her photo on an ofrenda.

“Si, si, of course. And you are…?”

“Hector Rivera,” he said, trying not to sound too nervous. The woman scanned the pages. Was it just his imagination, or was this taking longer than the others? He thought he heard a few people behind him complain under their breath. 

The woman frowned. Hector’s metaphorical heart sank.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but it doesn’t seem that anyone put your photo on an ofrenda.”

“How can that be?” Abuelita demanded, with enough force to make the poor woman flinch. “My grandson has a wife and child—there’s no way they wouldn’t put his photo up.”

“I’m sorry, señora. Is it possible that you…that they don’t know you died? It’s been happening a lot recently, because of the war.”

They had to know he was dead. At the very least, Ernesto would have wrote them, if not accompanied his body to Santa Cecilia for his funeral. Could Ernesto really not have told them? 

“It’s only been a few months, Hector, and you were away from home,” his mother said consolingly. “They might not know yet.”

“Maybe,” Hector mumbled. 

The other Riveras froze in place, waiting, watching Hector for some sign of what to do, how to react. 

“It’s fine,” he said, forcing his mouth into a smile. “Really. You go, there’s no point in all of us staying behind.”

“Are you sure?” Mama asked.

“Yes,” he said through his fake smile. “Make sure you bring me back some nice offerings. Champagne at the very least.”

Hector couldn’t stand the looks of pity in their eyes. Even Angel seemed sympathetic. Thankfully, they listened, and walked across the orange cempazuchils, whose bright happy glow seemed to mock him. Hector turned away to spend his first Dia de Muertos in the Land of the Dead.

 

“Jesus, what happened to you? You look like someone stole your tibia.”

Hector looked up from glass of tequila. A short, plump skeleton in a cowboy hat sat on the stool next to him. He had a hard face, even with his lack of flesh, and Hector could almost see the weathered, lined skin that he must have had in life. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Hector mumbled.

“Not on an ofrenda, eh?” the man guessed. “It’s hard your first year.”

“How do you know it’s my first year?” Hector asked.

“Ah, no one gets that glum after the first year. Resigned is more like it. But don’t worry—you’re young, and everyone loves dead young people. Did you die away from home?”

“Yes.”

“You see, they probably don’t even know yet. What was it—that war that everyone’s on about?”

Hector wondered how many times he’d be asked that. He’d encountered many newly dead young men, and they’d all met their ends at the wrong end of a rifle. It made his own death—food poisoning, just outside of the comforts of a Mexico City inn—all the more pathetic.

“No,” he said. The man didn’t press any further, for which he was extremely grateful. 

“You can call me Chicharrón.” 

“Hector.” He raised his glass. “Salut, amigo.”

“So what do you do, chamaco?” Chicharrón asked. It galled him to be called ‘chamaco’—though he supposed, compared to the middle-aged man, he was a kid.

“Nothing much.”

“That’s no good. Everyone has something they like doing to take their minds off of things. You need that to keep you sane.” Chicharrón lowered his voice. “You don’t want to spend your afterlife here getting drunk.”

Hector glanced around the cantina where, sure enough, several skeletons were slouched over their drinks in a sad, pathetic puddle of inebriation. 

“Music,” he finally admitted.

“There you go,” his new friend said. “Give us a song.”

“Ah, no. I’m entirely too sober for that.”

 

“And if I weren’t so ugleeeee/

She’d possibly give me a chance!”

“Ay, amigo,” laughed Chicharrón, throwing an arm around Hector’s shoulders. “You have got to tell me where you learned that one.”

 

A year past. Then another. By the time they reached five, people gave up their cheery reassurances of “maybe next year.” Now no one said a word, but gave him pitying, despairing looks when they thought he wasn’t watching. 

“You aren’t missing anything,” Nando said. “All we do is go to the cemetery and see stuffy old relatives that I don’t even know. It’s so boring.”

“The only good parts are the offerings,” Carla added, “and we always bring those back anyway.”

Hector smiled despite himself.

“Thanks, chicos, but you don’t need to lie for my sake.”

Was Imelda still so angry about him leaving that she refused to put his photo up? There was no way; Imelda could certainly hold a grudge, that was true, but she wouldn’t dishonor him in death if she knew that he died trying to get home to her. She must think he abandoned her, he realized with an unpleasant spasm in his stomach. He couldn’t understand how Ernesto hadn’t told them. Sure, Ernesto was busy on the road, and maybe hadn’t had the time to make the trip back to Santa Cecilia (which, he wasn’t going to lie, did hurt) but why hadn’t he at least written a letter? Even if Ernesto had relied on a doctor or police officer to notify his family, he should have offered his condolences to Imelda. He couldn’t understand it.

Hector was keenly aware that he was missing out on his daughter’s life. He missed her first day of school, her first communion, her confirmation, her quinceañera. She was a young woman by now, but he couldn’t picture it; to him, she’d always be the little girl with two braids and chubby cheeks, who laughed when he twirled her in the air and rested her hands on his face when he sang.

Hector continued to live his—well, not life, but afterlife. He performed on the street corners from time to time, for trinkets or food (they used the barter system here); he drank at the cantina with his sort of friends; he played with the niños. He did all of this, but his heart was not fully in it. Not anymore.

One evening, as he played on the corner, a thin, middle-aged woman approached him. 

“Oh, señor, do you take requests?”

He gave her his most charming grin. “Of course. What would you like?”

“Do you know ‘Remember Me?’” 

Hector froze. He couldn’t have heard right.

“R-remember Me?”

“Si, do you know it?”

H stared at the woman, hope blossoming in his chest. Was it just a coincidence, some unrelated song that happened to share the same name? Or could she possibly know Coco? She would have to be very close to Coco indeed for the girl to feel comfortable telling her about their song. 

“Pardon me, señora, but how do you know that song?” 

She let out a little laugh like bells chiming. “Oh, everyone in the Land of the Living knows that song! It’s Ernesto de la Cruz’s most popular hit.”

“Sorry, señora, I don’t know that one,” he stammered out, and she walked of, disappointed.

He was starting to suspect that maybe Ernesto was not such a good friend after all. 

 

For the first few years, Hector eagerly waited for his familia to return from the Land of the Living. He didn’t give a damn about the food they brought (not that he’d necessarily say no to some pan dulce either). He was eager to hear about Imelda and Coco.

“They look good, mijo,” his mother told him. “Imelda’s as beautiful as ever. And Coco, ay Dios mio, that girls has sprout up. She’d be up to hear on you now,” she demonstrated by bringing her hand up to his ribcage, “and still wears her hair in those two adorable little braids.”

“Yes, she loves braids,” Hector said. “She was going to show me how to do it herself…”

He cleared his throat and looked back up with a cheeky grin. “So, what else is going on in Santa Cecilia? Old Diego still around making trouble?”

Unfortunately, it only took two years for Imelda to stop putting up Hector’s family’s photos. She must have thought it was his responsibility, wherever he was. After that, the remembered Riveras could only visit Abuelita’s cousin’s ofrenda, which was several villages away from Santa Cecilia. No more updates. 

Hector wasn’t so easily deterred. He met a girl who loved his slow songs and just so happened to be from Santa Cecilia. Silvia Lopez was only a few years older than him, always wore a turquoise dress, and kept her long, wavy hair hanging loose over her shoulders, with tiny braids fastened around the back of her skull. Though it was impossible to tell just from looking at her skeleton, Hector suspected that she had been very beautiful in life.

“Coco looks to be thirteen now—” Silvia started.

“Twelve,” Hector couldn’t help but correct. 

“Twelve,” Silvia repeated with a knowing glint in her eyes. “She is obviously becoming a young woman. And a very beautiful one, a lot like her mama. She seems like a good girl, taking care of the gravestones. Though her mama snapped at her for humming a tune.”

“That sounds like them,” Hector said, savoring the details. Well, Imelda snapping sounded like her; he couldn’t fathom why Imelda would snap for humming of all things. 

“It’s hard, being away when they’re so young.” Silvia commented. 

“Ay, it is,” Hector said. His companion had a sorrowful air to her, even if she was tight lipped about it. “Um…I…how old were your niños?”

“My boys were two and three. I died giving birth to the youngest. Mi niña querida.”

Suddenly, Hector wanted to kick his thirteen-year-old self for ever disparaging poor Mariana Lopez. 

“Did your wife let you feel the baby kick?” Silvia asked.

Hector nodded. He remembered the first time that Imelda maneuvered his hand to find the right spot. He’d been awestruck by the little life that he’d helped create.

“I never saw my daughter,” Silvia said, “but I felt her. I knew that she was with me at all times. I loved her. It doesn’t matter how short a time we have with them. That kind of love never goes away.”

“No, it doesn’t,” he said softly. For want of something to do more than anything else, he strummed his guitar, something gentle and sweet to soothe them both. It took him a moment to realize that it was “La Llorona.”

 

Time went by quickly when you were dead; if it weren’t for Dia de Muertos, Hector doubted that most skeletons would notice the passing of years at all. He was shocked to realize that he’d been dead for twenty-one years—the exact amount of time he had lived. Coco would be twenty-five by now, a grown woman who could be married or have children of her own. Hector couldn’t wrap his mind around that.

It was around this time that Hector started acting odd.

“Hey, Nando, are you going blind or something?” Hector teased after a game of cabeza ball. “That was an easy save!”

“Course not,” Nando huffed. For a moment, the boy had appeared contemplative, like something weighed heavily on his mind. Hector frowned. During the game, Nando seemed to seize up, as if he couldn’t move. He still seemed shaky, nowhere near his usual confident self.

“You’re not getting sick, are you?” Hector asked, privately wondering if the dead could even get sick. 

Nando and Carla exchanged a look. They weren’t telling him something.

“You got lucky,” Nando said with false bravado. “Next time I’d totally kick your ass.”

“Sure thing, muchacho,” Hector laughed, though a part of him remained concerned. 

 

It got worse. His mother and siblings would freeze in place with no warning, emitting a strange, orangish glow and stumbling on their feet. It happened once to Mama as she carried Angel. Hector had to dive catch the baby before he shattered against the stone floor. 

“What’s going on?” Hector asked Abuelita, the only person who wasn’t affected. The others were napping, an activity they were doing more and more recently. Abuelita’s eyes widen in concern. It was an alien look on her, and scared Hector more than anything else in his afterlife. 

“Ay, mijo, I was hoping it wouldn’t get this far…”

“What?” he asked urgently.

“They’re fading away,” she said, which created more questions than it answered. She went on to explain the final death as Hector listened in numb disbelief. 

“So I’m not going to see them again?” he asked. He had only just gotten them back in his life! True, it had actually been over two decades, but suddenly that felt laughably short. 

From that moment on, Hector watched the others silently, obsessively, as if his diligence would somehow prevent it from happening. They didn’t like that; his mother was very clear that they should act as normal as possible. So he continued to sing for Mama, continued to toss squealing little Angel in the air, continued to play with the niños outside, all the while wondering if this would be the last time.

Then, abruptly, it was. He returned after an afternoon of playing his guitar at the cantina, only to find the sunset cantina unnervingly quiet. What happened to the baby’s giggles, his mother humming, the children bickering amongst themselves? He found Abuelita in the kitchen, slicing up peppers, her shoulders slumped over and her eyes downcast, the very picture of defeat. He knew then, without her having to say a word.

She would be gone too, in less than two years’ time, when the last of her distant cousins died. For the first time since his death, Hector was truly alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to show the progression of how Hector gets to the point where he's nearly forgotten in the movie. I didn't want him to start out at Shantytown. It was also fun coming up with the different rules for the Land of the Dead (like, what would they use before computers were invented? ) There will probably be about two chapters left, one pre-movie and one during. Maybe an epilogue, but I can't see this going beyond three more chapters.


	4. Chapter 4

Twenty some years after Hector’s death, he heard a peculiar rumor spreading rapidly around the cantinas and streets.

  
“They said it was during a big performance—‘Poco Loco’ I think it was.”

  
“No. He just dropped dead in front of all of those people?”

  
“He didn’t drop dead. A bell dropped on him!”

  
“No!”

  
“Madre de Dios!”

  
“Perdón,” Hector said, his curiosity getting the better of him, “but who had a bell dropped on him?”

  
The young women turned to him, eager to share the fresh gossip.

  
“Ernesto de la Cruz,” they said in unison, an odd mix of horror and elation.

  
“Can you believe he’s in the Land of the Dead now?” the taller of the two asked, a dreamy expression in her eyes.

  
Hector fought through many conflicting emotions, the least honorable of which was an urge to laugh.

  
“Wait, wait, wait, wait,” he said, gesturing so wildly with his hand that it nearly popped off. “You’re telling me that Ernesto de la Cruz, the great musico, died because a bell fell on him?”

  
Judging by their expressions, his tone was not respectful enough, but he didn’t care; for one brief, beautiful moment, he forgot all about this less than warm feelings towards his former friend and imagined teasing the poor bastard mercilessly. And he thought food poisoning was a bad way to go!

  
“Pobrecito,” the shorter woman sighed, while the taller one looked as him as if she were seeing him for the first time and didn’t quite like what she saw.

  
“You’re one to talk, Chorizo,” called a man’s voice from across the room. The cantina dissolved into raucous laughter. Hector fought the urge to start shouting at everyone.

  
“Never mind,” he mumbled, and exited to the sound of laughter at his back.

 

 

Okay, he could do this. All he had to do was find his former best friend turned the most beloved celebrity in the entire Land of the Dead, and ask him a few nonthreatening, friendly-ish questions. He was thinking along the lines of “hey, amigo, long time no see! Quick question: what the hell happened the night that I died, and why does my wife think that I abandoned her instead of, you know, dying? Oh, and why didn’t you ever give me co-credit for writing your entire musical catalog?” Then Ernesto would give him a perfectly sound explanation that somehow filled in all of the missing holes and righted all of the wrongs that happened to him.

  
He heard from Chicharrón, who heard from Gustavo, who heard from somebody “very close to Ernesto, I swear” that his old friend currently resided in a magnificent villa atop a steep hill. It took a few weeks for Hector to be sure that he found the right one, but once he did he made his way to the entrance of the great residence (apparently Ernesto had his own private cable car), putting on an air of confidence that didn’t quite ring true.

  
Unfortunately, Hector was stopped by a bulky skeleton dressed all in black and wearing sunglasses.

  
What the hell? Ernesto had his own bodyguards?!

  
“State your business,” the guard said gruffly, showing no more interest in Hector than if he were a random alebrije flying in the distance.

  
“I’m here to see Ernesto de la Cruz,” Hector said boldly, confidently, as if he had no worries in the world.

  
The guard snorted. “And is Señor de la Cruz expecting you?”

  
“You don’t understand, me and Ernesto go way back. In fact, I taught him everything he knows. Go on, tell him that his old amigo Hector is here.”

  
“Right,” the guard said, “I’ll make sure to let him know.”

  
Somehow, Hector did not think he was being sincere.

 

“I’m telling the truth! If you just let me through I can prove it!”

  
“Señor, we don’t just let anyone walk into Ernesto de la Cruz’s home. You need to schedule a meeting first.”

  
“And how do I do that?” Hector asked through gritted teeth.

  
“You’re such good amigos,” the guard said, “you should be able to manage.”

 

 

“Ernesto!” Hector shouted from the bottom of the hill. It was night, but the surrounding streets were still so busy that he had to project his voice as loudly as possible in the hopes that Ernesto would hear. “Come on, talk to me, Ernesto! It’s your old amigo Hector! Remember me, Ernesto?! REMEMBER. ME. Come on out, you hijo de la puta!”

  
And that was how Hector first wound up in trouble with what passed for police in the Land of the Dead.

 

 

“Those were my songs!” Hector fumed, thumping his fists so hard against the bar that a couple of fingers popped off. “I wrote them, we performed them together! At least that’s how it was in 1920, before he became the ‘greatest musico in all of Mexico!’”

  
“Sure they were, Chorizo,” came a voice from the other end of the bar, followed by the usual cue of laughter. Hector downed his drink miserably.

  
“I believe you,” said Silvia Lopez, giving him a sympathetic pat on the arm.

  
“You do?” Hector clung to her words like a life preserver, desperate for any kind of validation.

  
“Sure,” Silvia shrugged, “you’re a genuine person and a good musician. Why would you lie? Besides,” she added in a hushed, conspiratorial tone, “De la Cruz reminds me of a lot of guys I knew in Santa Cecilia—all bluster, no substance.”

  
Hector laughed. He could have hugged her. Unfortunately, she was just about the only person on his side; even some of his amigos, like Cheech, were skeptical. Hector learned to keep his jawbone firmly shut on the topic of Ernesto de la Cruz’s songs. It made his afterlife so much easier.

 

 

When Abuelita was finally gone (Hector came home one evening to find nothing but her favorite turquoise earrings and hairpins left on her bed) he could no longer stand the sight of the sunset house. The only reason he stayed so long after Mama and the children were gone was for Abuelita’s sake, but now that she was gone he had no reason to remain.

  
“I know where you could stay,” Chicharrón told him. “It’s no palace, but I can get you your own space away from everyone else.”

  
Hector agreed. One might wonder why he abandoned the relative comforts of the sunset house for the cramped, dilapidated Shantytown, but Hector didn’t mind. His bungalow had just enough space for him, he liked being near the water, and the company was excellent. He couldn’t complain.

 

 

Before his family was forgotten, Hector figured that even if he couldn’t see Coco on Dia de Muertos, he would eventually see her, decades into the future, when she died. He hated having to wait that long (not that he wished death on his only child!) but at least he had something to look forward to, a light at the end of the tunnel, so to speak. Now, with final death being thrown into the mix, he wasn’t so sure. If Coco died while there were still living people who remember Hector—say, if she died before Imelda, as horrible as that thought was—than he would see her again without a doubt. But what if she was the very last person to remember him? She was only a young girl at the time of his death, so it was possible. Then he’d…then they’d…

  
After that realization, Hector became more desperate to cross the bridge.

  
On his thirty-first Dia de Muertos in the Land of the Dead, he was with Chicharrón, as usual. Everyone buzzed about Ernesto’s new, fancy show, the “Sunshine Splendor” or whatever it was called, not that Hector felt bitter or anything.

  
“Hey, chamaco,” Cheech said, “guard my van, will you? I just need to have a quick chat inside,” he gestured to the nearby cantina with a dark look.

  
Automobiles of any kind were a rarity in the Land of the Dead, where most travelled by trolley or cable car. This made them somewhat of a luxury. Hector never knew how Cheech had acquired the van, though he suspected some ill-begotten way.

  
“No problem, Cheech,” Hector smiled brightly, which really should have been a tip off, in retrospect. He took a seat in the driver seat, tapping his bony fingers against the wheel. He remembered how desperately he’d wanted to drive when he was alive, but had never gotten the chance. He pictured himself cruising through the narrow streets, going breath-taking speeds down the steep hills. Perhaps Chicharrón would let him borrow it sometime, maybe as a reward for doing this favor.

  
Or…maybe, just maybe, he could use the van to rush past security and make his way up the bridge before anyone could so much as think the word “ofrenda.”

  
No, he shouldn’t do that. He really shouldn’t. It couldn’t possibly end well.

  
Hector finally realized what he’d been missing for the last fifty years; driving was amazing. Although that could have had something to do with the Land of the Dead existing exclusively on a series of hills. Skeletons jumped out of his way with indignant cries, children stopped to point. Some weren’t so lucky and shattered as he collided with them, bones scattering all over the street, enraged skulls shouting obscenities at him. Hector’s teeth chattered, his bones shook, and he couldn’t keep the large, boyish smirk off of his skull.

  
This was the most alive he’d ever felt, and the irony wasn't lost on him.

  
He was assaulted with cries of “stop” and “what are you doing” as he approached the security checkpoint. The lines twisted behind the officers, who ran everyone’s information through a big blinking machine the size of a wall. The crowd barely had the time to jump out of the way before Hector’s van smashed through the barrier, debris flying everywhere. _I’m going to make it_ , he thought, hoping surging through his empty chest. _I’m actually going to make it_.

  
But of course, he didn’t make it. As he drove up the incline, the van slowed down until it finally came to a stop, sunken into the petals. No matter how hard he pushed his foot against the pedal, he couldn’t make the van move again.

  
It was his first Dia de Muertos in jail, which was probably a good thing, considering that Cheech would kill again for losing his van.

 

 

After fifty years in the Land of the Dead (his Coco was an old lady now, likely with grandchildren of her own), Hector heard from Silvia, who heard from her prima Julia, who heard it from her friend, Ofelia, that Imelda Rivera of Santa Cecilia was dead.

  
Hector did the mental math; Imelda was seventy-two. Not a bad age to go, especially when compared to her husband. He hoped that her passing had been quick, easy, and as painless as possible.

  
Hector had grown used to being alone. Well, he wasn’t truly alone, not when he had his Shantytown family, but he was bereft of those blood bonds that mattered so much in death as well as life. Now, his family was back—sort of. Imelda was still his wife, which had to count for something, though as happy as he was at the prospect of being reunited, he also dreaded the encounter. His Imelda had always been rather…volatile.

  
Still, he had to try.

  
“I didn’t know you had a wife!” Chicharrón commented after Hector told him the news.

  
“Sure you did, I must have told you a dozen times!”

  
The old man shook his head stubbornly. He wasn’t wearing a hat, and from this angle, Hector could spot the duct tape that held his skull together. “I would have remembered it if I’d known you somehow convinced a poor woman to marry you. What was she, loco?”

  
“Is it really so hard to believe that women would rush to someone as guapo as me?”

  
Cheech gave him a flat look. “You got her pregnant, didn’t you?”

  
“No!” Hector snapped, knowing that if he were alive he would have blushed. “Are you going to help me find her or not?”'

  
“Not,” he said. “Not after you wrecked my van and gambled away my femur.”

  
“How was I supposed to know that I would lose? I was on a winning streak!”

  
“Why would someone even want to bet on a femur!?”

  
“I don’t know, you’ll have to ask Big Antonio.”

  
Fortunately, he didn’t need Chicharrón’s help to track down Imelda. Silvia Lopez apparently knew every resident of the Land of the Dead, and it only took her a few days to discover that Imelda shared an address with her twin brothers.

  
Hector felt a pang of guilt; he hadn’t even know that Oscar and Filipe were dead. Some brother-in-law he was, on top of everything else.

  
But no matter. The past was past. All he could do now was hope for a better tomorrow with Imelda.

  
He waited outside of her house for three days until he finally saw her. He leaned against a nearby wall, as casually as humanly possible, and exclaimed, “Imelda! What are the chance of seeing you here!”  
Imelda stopped abruptly, narrowing her eyes. For a moment, Hector thought she might take a swing at him with the bags in her arms. Instead she said, with undisguised venom, “What are you doing here?”

  
Not the best start, but he could still save this. After all, he had won Imelda over once before.

  
“You’re just as beautiful as I remembered,” he smiled, then added, more wistfully, “I missed you, querida.”

  
He hadn’t thought it possible for her scowl to deepen, but he was evidentially wrong. “If you missed me so much, then why didn’t you come home?”

  
“I wanted to come home, but…Imelda, I died before I could,” he said, his voice getting quieter and quieter with each word.

  
Imelda let that sink in. For a moment, her expression softened, but it lasted only a few seconds before she went back to her harsh exterior.

  
“And whose fault is that?! You chose to leave us, Hector! No one made you! If you hadn’t left, Coco would have grown up with a father!”

  
Hector shrunk back, not because of the harshness of her words, but because he knew that she was right. His family had been broken, and it was all his fault.

  
“Let me make this clear, Hector: I want nothing more to do with you,” she said. She threw him one last, contemptuous look before turning her back to him and striding away. Hector watched her go, making no more effort to call her back.

 

 

After the confrontation with Imelda, Hector gave up music. He didn’t have the heart for it any more. He watched the years go by becoming increasingly more desperate. His photo was never going on an ofrenda. He was running out of ideas.

  
And then he ran into that living boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait. There will be at least one more chapter that covers the events of the movie, then possibly an epilouge. I'll try to get it out as soon as I can, but my real life has been hectic lately so I can't say for sure when it'll be ready. Thank you everyone who has stuck with the story so far.


End file.
